


Rule 34

by tooth_and_claw



Category: Zombieland (2009)
Genre: M/M, lolfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tooth_and_claw/pseuds/tooth_and_claw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freezers! Turkeys! Peaches?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rule 34

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nanthimus (nan)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nan/gifts).



 Rule 34

Rule # 1 is Cardio. We’ve already established this, of course, and I think I’ve given you plenty of examples to highlight the importance of this rule. Not that it’s hard to keep the chub off in Zombieland, but staying thin is different than staying fast.

 Unfortunately, that rule can get a little more complicated in this post apocalyptic world. Running for your life consumes a lot of fuel, and you are forever running, or thinking about running, which interestingly enough can leave you just as tired. So, enter rule # 10, one I learned the hard way: always make sure you pay attention to good nutrition.

 Yeah, it’s nice when suddenly all that social pressure not to stuff yourself full of Mars bars has faded into distant memory (and carnivorous urges), but when your gums start bleeding and those legs don’t work as good as they used to, well, the best you can hope for is that you’ll somehow kill a zombie be being an extra unhealthy meal. Cholesterol and all.

 The essentials for good nutrition on the run: Vitamins. Vitamins will always be number one. I like the chewy ones and Flintstones, myself. Hunting, when you can, though meat isn’t something that I think many survivors crave. I mean, you’ll eat anything when it’s been long enough, but I’m betting that the human race from this point forward will mostly be vegetarians. Tallahassee disagrees, of course, since the only thing he craves more than Twinkies is “a big, goddamn, juicy as sin, fat flank of porterhouse” but I just can’t reconcile a steak with the gore we see every day. Oh, and essential number 3: supermarkets. Supermarkets are like candy land—and if they have electricity? 

 “It’s like the pearly gates are opening up just for me and them angels are singing: all you can eat, my friend. All you can eat.” Tallahassee is almost weepy, hand over his heart.

 “It’s probably all gone bad,” Wichita looks dubious. She has her gun over one shoulder, practiced and confident. She had experience with supermarkets. Well, we know that, I guess. 

  “Shit, girl. You gotta go stompin’ on my dreams again.” Tallahassee grins at her. “How many you reckon are stumbling round in there?”

 “Rural area . . .” she says, squinting. “Five? Six?”

 “Why do you think it has power?” I ask. Power makes me nervous. I love it, don’t get me wrong. But lights draw attention.

 Tallahassee spits. “Generator. Maybe a couple of poor saps like us been here before they got ate.”

 “Maybe they’re still in there.” 

 “Well, if they are, I really hope they’re willing to share. “ He tips his hat and gives that psycho-feral grin. “Wichita, why don’t you stay and watch sleeping beauty back there. We’ll bring her back a nice surprise. Columbus, let’s man up.”

 Little Rock’s got her little face pressed up against the glass, drooling. Wichita is nodding, though reluctantly I think. She doesn’t like being left behind, and I like to pretend it’s because of me. She’s doing that cute thing where she’s looking concerned for us. Sigh. Swoon.  

 Okay, so, inside a supermarket. There’s less of them than we think, and yeah, the fresh produce isn’t so great. But they have canned peaches—canned peaches are like God’s gift to survivors, you don’t even notice the tin taste anymore—and then Tallahassee makes the best discovery since, um . . . I want to say sliced bread but I actually think Mr. Murray’s house was better, so since that.

 ‘Well I’ll be goddamned. Columbus, get yer skinny ass back here!” 

 I’m eating my peaches. You have to be careful with canned goods sometimes. Always take the good stuff. No dented cans. Nobody likes botulism, it’s like the really angry stranger at the house party. Like, that guy who gets super pissed off and starts hitting people and everybody is all "Where did this guy come from, I didn't invite him, did you invite him?" That's botulism. That hasn’t quite made it into a rule yet, though I think it falls under the header of good nutrition.

 Tallahassee is leaning on a stack of paper towels, making it into a throne. He points his shotgun at the backdoor, where those ubiquitous plastic straps are still waving. I don’t know if it’s from him or a zombie; either he found something really amazing or he thought of a really great kill. Tallahassee has declared it his goal to make the most inventive kill of the year, let alone the week. We haven’t had too much opportunity since Pacific Playland. Turns out zombies don’t like winter, it makes them slow.  

 He gestures at it more emphatically. I mouth zombie at him. He rolls his eyes and point with the barrel of the gun, like, ‘go on, stupid’. 

 I go.

 Back rooms are as bad as bathrooms. There’s a reason they sound the same; it’s because they were both designed by satan to lure in unwary survivors. I check every shelf as I go by, looking for shuffling feet under the racks, staying the middle to avoid grabby hands. It’s dark, but there’s a light shining from some open door father down. 

 It’s a freezer. It’s a freezer that still works, filled with still frozen food—meat (we already talked about meat) and frozen strawberries and salads and god knows whatever else. Okay, it’s probably all freezer burned, but when you haven’t had an apple in eight months, I mean, assuming you like apples, even sliced and frozen, they look really good. 

 “Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukash and whatever the fuck that African one is.” Tallahassee claps me on the shoulder. I’m startled, spilling my peaches all over the front of my shirt. He just laughs. 

 “Thanks a lot,” I say. There’s sticky peach juice soaked through to my chest. I left my coat where I was sitting before he called me back. Great. At least I smell good now, I guess.

 “Well, well,” Tallahassee waves a package at me. “Ice cream bars.”

 “Oo. Are they the ones that have the dark, chocolate cake . . . things . . . or the ones with the chocolate chip cookies?”

 “Chocolate cake. I wonder . . .” He starts rooting for, undoubtedly, Twinkies. Frozen Twinkies. I have no idea why you’d freeze a Twinkie, but Tallahassee is a driven man.

 I don’t hear the moans over his cursing until I hear a bunch of milk cartons full of . . . yeah, that’s not milk anymore . . . until I hear those tumble over. “Tallahassee . . .”

 “What?” He’s head deep in the deserts. Where did they come from? There must have been an open door to outside, a loading dock or something. 

 “Um, company?” 

 “Aw, hell . . .” Tallahassee steps back, looking irritated, considering the shelves. He grabs a massive white-wrapped lump.

 “A frozen turkey?”

 “25 pounder,” Tallahassee beams. “Better than a bowling ball.” 

 ‘Oh, well, that . . . that makes sense. Pretty good heft?”

 “Great heft. See, you got the legs right here, make good handholds, and—whoa!”

 They come flying out of the dark, a really rotten one in a delivery guy’s uniform and, um, I can’t tell if most of her clothes were ripped off or if she was dressed like that before, but, wow, that’s a short skirt. I step back and let Tallahassee take the lead—he gets so excited about these things, it’s the least I can do. He winds up and wails on them with that turkey. I mean, like, rock star. It’s the Who smashing their guitars on stage. It’s a blitz. With a turkey.

 I applaud politely as he uppercuts Delivery Guy into the wire shelving. He turns and takes a bow as the shelving goes down like haphazard dominoes. I’m not really sure the physics of it—there must have been something on the top of the shelves that was really heavy or a, a, I don’t know, a stiff breeze or something. Whatever happens, it happens quick—something falls, hits the door, and before we know what’s happening, it closes with this, like . . . whomp. A definitive whomping noise.

 And we’re locked in the freezer.

 “Oh my god we’re locked in the freezer.” I say. I mean, what *else* do you say? Tallahassee shakes his head, sneering, and pushes on the door. It won’t budge. I know it won’t budge because I’ve heard stories about stuff like this. I’ve heard stories in which “People get trapped in these things, and they freeze to death, or they run out of air. Those are the two main options. Freezing or suffocating. We’re going to freeze or suffocate.”

 “Shut up, Columbus.” Tallahassee starts beating on the door. Then he tries running at the door. Then he starts beating on the door again, this time with the turkey, which doesn’t budge it, or even dent it, but does smear it with zombie juices. “Goddamn it.” He finally drops the thing and stands, scratching his head under his hat.

 This takes fifteen minutes for so for him to give up. I’m getting pretty cold.

 ‘Wichita better get her rear hind in gear and get us out of here.” He says, then leans back on the shelves. 

 “Is . . . is that it?” I’m in a soaking peach-wet shirt. It’s getting *really* cold. At least Tallahassee has his jacket. “Is that all we’re gonna try?”

 He opens up an ice cream sandwich. “What? You’re the one who’s all ‘ahh, ahh, we’re gonna freeze’.”

 “It was a moment of panic. I think I’m allowed to have that. And I’m closer to freezing than you are.” I pull on the shirt to emphasize my point. 

Tallahassee shrugs. “I’m not cold.”

 10 minutes later he is, when the sweat he worked up trying to push open the door starts to freeze. I would like to say I’m doing something proactive to get us out this situation. Maybe, like making a bomb out of frozen peas and coolant or something. But mostly what I’m doing is shivering. 

 “I’m gonna kill her.” Tallahassee says through chattering teeth. “I’m gonna kill her. I bet she’s gone and run off with our truck again, and we’re gonna die.”

 “See, now you’re to one that’s being negative.” 

 “Shut *up*, Columbus,” he glares at me. “Shit, boy, your lips are turning blue. You know what you’re supposed to do in situations like these?”

 “Pray?”

 “You’re supposed to share body heat.”

  “This is rapidly turning into one of the worse nights of my life. Just so you know.” Mostly that comes out as a lot of stuttering due to the shivers. 

 “You think I like the idea of cuddlin’ with someone I woulda beat up in high school? It’s a matter of life and death here, and I’m thinking about just taking the death part.” He says this through a grin. He might hate it, but he loves how unhappy I seem. He . . . thinks it’s funny. Of course. 

 Okay. I can do this. I can do this. It’s like . . . it’s like . . . I can’t really think of what it’s like. It’s like getting a really long and uncomfortable hug from your Uncle Bernie, ‘the weird one’. I thought that was one of the benefits of the zombie apocalypse—no more awkward snugglebunnies with balding relatives. Not that Tallahassee is a relative or balding, just, you know, the same creepy uncle vibe. Or more like the cousin that nobody talks about, who spent time ‘upstate’. 

 “Come to papa bear,” he leers.

 “You are not making me comfortable.” 

 “Come one, I’m kiddin’. Don’t let yourself turn into a nerdcicle just cause you’re afraid of a little hug. We’re sensitive guys, raised in a sensitive world. We can stand a little close contact.”

 I am hesitant, but I am also so cold that I think my eye balls are freezing-- really, blinking hurts a little bit. He lifts up his jacket and I . . . oh god, the shame . . . I nuzzle.

 “. . . You know kid, I’ve been waiting for a moment like this to say something.” Tallahassee says, suddenly serious. I don’t know how he can manage serious right now, since all I can manage is embarrassment. Hey, at least the blush was keeping my face warm. 

 “Yes?”

 “I’m really glad that you and I hooked up. Never liked having partners—you remember the stories—but you’ve and I and the girls, I think we’ve had a grand ol’ time. I guess what I’m trying to say is . . .” he smiles at me, cracking up before he can even finish. “I just don’t know if I could quit you.”

  “You are *such* an asshole.”

  . . .

 “So you gonna take that wet shirt off, or what?”

  
*****  
 Wichita got nervous after the first hour, but by an hour fifteen minutes, she was downright worried. “Hey, Little Rock,” she said, shaking the sleeping girl. True to survivor form, the ten year old popped right awake. 

 “What is it? What’s going on?”

 “I need you to come with me. I think the boys have got themselves into trouble.”

 Little Rock sighed. “They do that a lot, don’t they?”

 “Yeah. Let’s go.”

 Inside the supermarket they found three zombie corpses (the re-undead?), but no sign of the guys. The only place left to search was the back. Wichita listened carefully at the yawning black opening while Little Rock rooted around for a flashlight and some batteries. There were none of the tell-tale sounds: snuffling, groaning, the rip of flesh from bone. When Little Rock came back, she just shrugged. “They’re either back here or they ran off on us.” The girl looked incredulous, and Wichita ruffled her hair, sharing the smirk. Yeah, like that was going to happen. 

“Stay here and guard my back.”

 It was a mess. Whatever had happened back here, a huge portion of the shelving had been knocked down. She nosed through the debris, almost screaming as she just about put her foot in the remnant of a zombie head. They’d been here, all right. And what was that she smelled? Peaches?

 The corpses were right in front of a closed metal door— an industrial freezer. Some of the shelving blocked it from opening. Wichita suddenly had a sneaking suspicion she knew where they got off to, and hauled the metal framing out of the way. The door opened with an easy hiss. The lights inside were on, and she saw Columbus and Tallahassee curled up in the back underneath Tallahassee’s snakeskin jacket. And his shirt, and his pants. And Columbus’s clothing contributions.

 Her laughing is what woke them up.

 “We were just trying to stay warm! It’s cold! Body heat! Oh my god.” Columbus frantically pulled his pants on. Tallahassee took his time, smirking, while Wichita tried to keep her balance, tears of mirth streaming down her face. “Rule number 34, Columbus!” She yelled after him as he scrambled out of the back room. “Don’t sleep with strange men!”

  
 

  



End file.
